


Before the Battle

by reona32



Series: The Bowman and the Elvenking [1]
Category: The Hobbit (Jackson Movies), The Hobbit - All Media Types
Genre: Bard is in trouble, Falling In Love, M/M, Movie 3: The Hobbit: The Battle of the Five Armies
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-05-09
Updated: 2020-05-09
Packaged: 2021-03-03 02:55:57
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,334
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/24097696
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/reona32/pseuds/reona32
Summary: The night and morning after Bilbo gave them the Arkenstone but before Thranduil and Bard confront Thorin at Erebor.
Relationships: Bard the Bowman/Thranduil
Series: The Bowman and the Elvenking [1]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/1738627
Comments: 5
Kudos: 69





	Before the Battle

**Author's Note:**

> You know, Thranduil didn't have to being food and aide to the Men. He could have just swept through and gone to Erebor but no. He helped Bard and his people. Because he's not bloody heartless.

The quill scratched across the parchment and Thranduil paused to gather his thoughts. “You are staring,” he muttered after a moment.

Across the tent, in what was actually the Elvenking's high backed travel throne, slumped Bard. The bowman's dark half lidded eyes were fixed on Thranduil. “Got something worth staring at,” replied the man drowsily. 

The elf looked over at the wine decanter. “How much drink have you had?”

“You're the one that kept handing me goblets.”

“There was barely a mouthful or two in each. How are you this drunk?”

“I'm not drunk.” Thranduil leveled an unimpressed look at the man. “I'm not,” insisted Bard. His claims were not helped by his inelegant sprawl.

“If you insist.” Thranduil went back to writing his instructions for his council, since it seemed he and his army would be occupied in Dale for longer than he had anticipated. On the small table in the center of the tent, wrapped in its cloth, was the Arkenstone. A lock of pale silver-blond hair slipped over the elf's shoulder. Bard hummed and Thranduil looked at him again. “Should you not be abed? I know you and your family have been provided a tent and beds.”

Bard shrugged a shoulder. “Not tired.”

“Now, that is a lie. You can barely keep your eyes open.” Thranduil put down his quill and sanded the page. “You need rest for when we confront Thorin in the morning,” he said, glancing at where the Arkenstone sat. “Go to bed, Aran-neth.”

“What does that mean? 'Aran-neth'.”

Thranduil turned completely to face Bard, icy blue eyes regarding the man for a long moment. “Why are you hiding in my tent, Bard?”

The man became more alert, sitting up a little. “I'm not hiding. I'm not tired and I don't need sleep.”

“Despite what you say, you need sleep,” Thranduil replied, rolling up the parchment and tying it with a ribbon.

“What about you? I don't see you going to sleep any time soon,” challenged Bard.

“Elves need much less sleep than Men, Aran-neth. I will be fine.”

“What does that mean?” Bard asked again, sounding more irritated.

Thranduil's lips quirked in slight amusement. “Galion,” he said softly. Bard looked confused before a brown haired elf gently parted the tent flap and quietly entered.

“Aran-nȋn?” the elf asked, bowing.

Bard pointed. “Ah! He used the word too. 'Aran.' What does it mean!?” he whined.

Thranduil gestured to the parchment, ignoring the man. “Have a messenger dispatched to Greenwood at once, Galion, and send in one of the guards to escort Lord Bard to the tent his family is resting in,” the Elvenking ordered.

“I can find my own bloody way to the tent,” Bard grumbled, making no move to stand. If anything he slumped more heavily into the chair. Galion picked the rolled parchment up and bowed out of the tent. Another elf with bright auburn hair stepped in a moment later. They wore the golden armor of Thranduil's army and greeted their king with a bow and a low murmur. Bard squinted; he was pretty sure this one was a woman.

“Auriel, take Lord Bard back to his family's tent." 

The guard nodded and looked toward Bard, green eyes sparkling merrily. “My lord?” prompted the elf politely. 

Bard folded his arms across his chest. “Not a lord.”

“At the moment you are acting like a cranky two year old,” scolded Thranduil with a sigh. “Auriel, inform your husband I require a tray of tea.”

“Yes, Aran-nȋn.”

“There is that word again!” grumbled Bard. “What does 'aran' mean, damn it.”

Surprised, the guard blinked. “Aran means king,” she replied.

Emboldened by finally being answered plainly, Bard asked, “And what does 'neth' mean?”

Auriel glanced toward Thranduil, sensing something else going on, but the Elvenking waved a hand. “It means young.”

“Thank you!” Bard exclaimed in exasperation. Auriel slipped out of the tent as silently as she came. Bard smirked at Thranduil, “Young king, huh?”

The Elvenking focused on the papers on his desk. “It is a fitting descriptor.” 

Bard chuckled, giving the arms of the throne happy little pats with his palms. “Young king,” he muttered to himself in amusement. The tent flap parted and Galion reappeared with a tray with a pot, cups, and small pastries, which he set on a nearby table. He muttered something softly in elvish. Thranduil shook his head and the aide ducked out of the tent again. Thranduil stood and went to the tray, pouring a pale steaming liquid into the cups. Honey was added and Thranduil handed Bard the cup. “Thank you,” he said sullenly. He did not want some bloody tea.

“Drink it,” ordered Thranduil, sensing his attitude. Bard took a big gulp and then made a pleased noise as it was quite good. Thranduil fixed his own cup and picked up one of the little pastries.

“Where did Galion get sweets from?” asked a confused Bard. Dale was in ruins and the people recovering from the dragon. Who could even make pastries right now?

“I do not know,” replied Thranduil, handing the man a pastry. “I've learned not to over think on what Galion can accomplish.”

“Like where he could get cherry tarts from,” said Bard, brushing away crumbs from his mouth. Thranduil tilted his head in agreement and fixed him another cup of tea. It was not long before his hazel eyes began to droop. “You've drugged me,” Bard accused sleepily. 

“I have not,” said Thranduil, rescuing the cup. “The tea merely relaxed you so you may sleep, like you need to.” He grabbed the man's arm and easily hauled him up. The elf walked Bard through a curtain and eased him down onto a travel bed. Thranduil pulled off his coat and boots as Bard grumbled and then pressed against his chest to lay him down. “Sleep, Bard,” the elf ordered again.

Bard muttered in distress and Thranduil cocked his head, long hair sweeping over his shoulder. “I don't... can't... I can't...” he complained, struggling to stay awake. Bard tossed his head on the pillow. “It's waiting... Can't sleep...” Thranduil frowned, growing concerned for the man. “Fire...” whimpered Bard.

Thranduil's icy blue eyes widened and then softened in sympathy. He understood now. All too well. The elf laid his forefinger against Bard's brow and ran it gently down the bridge of his nose. Bard's mumbling cut off. “Sleep, Bard. You will not dream. No dragon, no fire waits for you in the dark, I promise.” The man was too far gone to see the starlit glow around the elf, Thranduil's eyes and hair gleaming for a moment. Bard's breathing slowed and deepened, sleep claiming him finally.

***<*>***

Bard blinked his eyes open. He stared at the canvas ceiling of the tent and frowned. He felt rested. He felt well. He had not dreamed, not that he could remember. He was not hungover. The damned elf had drugged him. Or bewitched him. The curtain was swept aside and Galion stepped inside. “Good morning, Lord Bard. A light breakfast has been prepared for your enjoyment. If you wish to get up and wash, your family is waiting for you.”

Keeping his temper in check, Bard cleaned himself up in a basin of water and pulled on clean clothing. His coat and boots had been brushed and he'd been given a clean pair of trousers and a shirt. He had no idea who the trousers belonged to but he was fairly sure the shirt was his. Some things had been salvaged from the burned Lake-town but Bard was fairly sure this shirt had not been one of those items. Plus, it was clean and a small hole that had once been on the shoulder had been repaired so finely he could almost doubt the tear had ever been there.

“Da!”

Bard startled and had a bear moment to brace himself before Tilda crashed into his legs. Sigrid and Bain followed a moment later, surrounding their father and hugging him tightly. Bard crouched, brushing his hands over his childrens' hair. “Are you ok?” he asked. “Have you eaten?” The three children were clean and dressed in fresh clothing. Bard frowned at Sigird's dress, knowing that the hand me down from her mother had been left in Lake-town and it certainly had not had a lace collar last he saw it, and he had no clue where the tunic Bain was wearing had come from. He was forced to admit it looked elvish. Tilda had blue ribbons in her hair.

Sigrid nodded. “King Thranduil invited us for breakfast.” Bard looked up to find a table with several half eaten plates of fried eggs and bread with jam and butter. Tall glasses of milk sat before three plates.

“Do you feel better, Da?” asked Tilda. Bard looked down at her in confusion.

“Mister Galion told us last night that you weren't feeling well and was spending the night under care, just to be careful,” supplied Sigrid.

“Galion told you?”

“King Thranduil did not want us to worry about your absence,” Bain said, looking over to the right.

Bard followed his son's gaze to find the Elvenking sitting on the other side of the table. The elf was in his silvery armor, although his cape and swords were absent. He was frowning down at a piece of paper, Galion hovering at his side. Bard stood. “You drugged me!”

“I did not.”

“Then what was in that tea?”

“Chamomile, mostly.”

“Mostly!”

Thranduil sighed and gestured at the table. “You needed sleep. Now, come eat. We leave for Erebor soon.”

“Thranduil braided my hair, Da! Isn't it pretty?” Tilda exclaimed, turning so her father could see the two braids on either side of her head, blue ribbons woven within them. 

Bard glanced at the Elvenking; his youngest was both leaving off his title and mangling the pronunciation of his name but the elf seemed not to care one bit. “It's lovely, darling.” He sat at the table. “Sigrid,” he asked, hesitant, “how did you get that dress?”

“Oh,” Sigrid exclaimed. “King Thranduil sent some of his elves to Lake-town to get what we could not bring with us. They've been bringing things back all morning.”

Bard jaw dropped. “The elves went back to Lake-town for more salvage?”

Thranduil frowned lightly. “Not much but we are bringing what we find back. They can get into places where your people could not. Also, there is building material still in good condition there. I suggest and ask your permission for my elves to begin dissembling useful materials from Lake-town and bringing them to Dale. Shelter is a pressing issue for your people.”

“Yes. Please, yes! Whatever you can find, please bring it to Dale,” exclaimed Bard, excited. They had very little to work with and with those materials his people could begin building a life in the ruined city.

Thranduil's lips curled in a smirk and he nodded to Galion, who gathered up the papers and left the tent. “Bain,” the Elvenking said softly.

Bard jerks his head around to find his son guiltily pulling his hands back from where two sheathed swords lay on top a cabinet. Elven blades. “Get away from those!” gasps Bard. Bain started even more guiltily at his father's yell.

“Calm yourself, Bard,” Thranduil said, standing. He went over to Bain and knelt before the boy, putting one of the swords across his knees. “I'm sure your father pressed upon you the respect a weapon deserves.”

Bain nodded. “Yes, sir. They are not toys.” He dark eyes grew wide as Thranduil unsheathed the blade, the metal gleaming in the candlelight.

“Then you should know that elven blades are sharper than any others and should be dealt with carefully,” the elf said, voice soft. Bain nodded, face reverent. “The craft-elves of Greenwood take great pride in their creations. These blades have seen me through many battles and never failed me.”

“They are beautiful,” Bain whispered.

Thranduil's face softened. “They are at that. So when you are ready, you shall have an elven blade of your own as well.”

Bain jerked his gaze up to the elf, a wide grin breaking across his face. “Really?”

“Yes. Consider it a future coming of age gift. But only when you are ready. As you said, they are not toys.”

“Thank you! Thank you so much, Mister Thranduil!”

“King Thranduil!” hissed Sigrid. Bain ducked his head, embarrassed.

The Elvenking chuckled lightly, sheathing the sword and standing. “It is alright, Lady Sigrid. I give you all permission to use my name. No king or mister or what have you.” Sigrid blushed at being called a lady.

“I want to be a lady too!” Tilda squealed in jealousy.

Thranduil stroked his hand over the little girl's hair. “Ah, but you have a title much better than lady.”

“What?”

“You are our tithen-pen,” Thranduil said with a soft smile.

Tilda scrunched up her nose. “What does that mean?”

“It mean you are our 'little one'.”

Tilda thought for a moment, cheeks puffing. “Alright,” she said, sitting down properly on her chair. “It will do.” 

Thrnaduil laughed brightly. “Drink your milk, tithen-pen. I and your father must leave soon and I want you all enclosed in the great hall with Galion and Auriel before then.” Tilda obediently began to gulp her milk. Sigrid took a couple more bites of her eggs and Bain shoved that last of his bread in his mouth, like a chipmunk. Thranduil set about strapping his swords to his armor.

Bard sat in his chair staring into the middle distance against the canvas tent wall, chewing bread absently. He was in trouble. Big, big trouble. Last night was about lust and being more than a little tipsy and avoiding dreams of fire and death and dragons with pale hair and starry eyes. But now the bastard elf had been good with his children and helpful with his people and, damn it all, Bard was in love.

So much trouble.


End file.
